The wind howled violently against the jagged peaks of Mount Kailasa
The wind howled violently against the jagged peaks of Mount Kailasa, whipping snow in frenzied spirals that disappeared into the blackness of the night. At the heart of the storm stood a woman cloaked in obsidian robes edged with glinting crimson thread, a figure both foreign and elemental against the Himalayan vastness. Her long coat was tailored to precision, its high collar defying the blizzard’s bite. Beneath it, a deep burgundy tunic in supple yak wool hugged her athletic frame, its color bold yet earthy against the unforgiving cold. Her hair, streaked with glints of frost, cascaded down in thick, wavy tendrils, defying the frigid winds with its incongruous softness. In one gloved hand, she gripped a staff carved from dark driftwood, its gnarled tip glowing faintly with inscriptions of ancient glyphs. A leather satchel in the color of cooked caramel swung lightly at her hip, a curious blend of practicality and mystery, as though it held secrets from the very bones of the Earth.
The monastery loomed in the distance, cut into the mountainside like a fortress of the gods. Ancient stone walls were veined with ice, their gargoyle-like statues half-obscured by the storm. Her thick-framed glasses, which might have seemed out of place in such surroundings, caught the faint flicker of torchlight leaking from a crevice in the colossal monastery gates. She pushed forward, her footsteps crunching rhythmically in the snow—a sound swallowed almost instantly by the night.
A shadow detached itself from the stones ahead. Seconds later, the shape became clear: a hooded monk in an ochre robe, his face invisible under the folds of cloth. He raised a hand, palm outward, and called out in a language she didn’t understand, his voice guttural and insistent. The air around her seemed to freeze, not from the temperature but from a sudden tension that knotted her chest. She carefully slipped her glasses into her inner pocket, making their intellectual irony disappear, and tightened her grip on the staff.
“I come in peace,” she called, her voice resolute yet calm, though inside her heart was a drumbeat of uncertainty. Her breath billowed visibly in the icy air as the monk stepped closer, his gesture sharp and pointed now, a clear command to stop. He carried no weapon, but his presence was far from unarmed.
“You carry the Key,” the monk finally rasped, in a broken form of her native tongue. “Do you not know what you have done?”
“No,” she replied truthfully. “I only seek answers. Please, let me speak to—”
A sudden gust tore through the air, and with it came rapid, staccato movement from her left. From the swirling white void of the storm emerged two figures cloaked in black, faces masked but eyes glimmering like wet onyx. Their movements were too fast, too precise for normal humans. She barely had time to react as they lunged for her, blades flashing in the torchlight.
The staff arced through the air, meeting the strike of the first figure with an explosion of sparks. She spun, the burgundy tunic splitting briefly to reveal fitted trousers secured with leather straps, their streamlined design allowing her to pivot seamlessly. The assailant’s second swing came too close—the fabric of her coat tore, exposing a sliver of pale skin that prickled instantly in the cold. She gritted her teeth and drove her elbow into their ribs, a resounding crunch echoing against the rock. The second attacker was already closing the gap.
The monk’s chants rose in the background, guttural syllables that resonated like thunder in her ears. She swung her bag in a wide arc, clipping the second figure in the side of the head. They stumbled, but not before plunging their blade downward. She felt it scrape along the edge of her staff, missing her by a fraction of an inch. With a primal scream, she drove the dark weapon downward, shattering their mask and sending them sprawling into the snowbound void below.
“Enough!” the monk roared, his hand erupting with light—a golden flame-like energy that illuminated the storm-torn landscape. The retreating attacker melted into the storm, as though they had never existed at all. She stood panting, her breath harsh and loud, while the monk turned his gaze to her. The crystalline snowflakes reflected in his ancient eyes betrayed centuries of knowing. “If you do not leave this place…” His voice was heavy, resigned. “It will destroy you.”
“Not before I find the truth,” she said, defiantly stepping forward, the faint glow of her staff intensifying. “Tell me what you know about the Key.”
The monk’s lips pressed into a grim line. “It is not knowledge you seek. It is salvation.” He stepped aside, extending a hand toward the towering gate. “And the gods don’t gift it freely.”
As the massive doors began to creak open, revealing the infernal glow of whatever lay within, she couldn’t help but wonder whether the answers she sought would cost her more than she was willing to give. Or whether she was already too late.
Genre: Historical Fantasy/Adventure
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Chic Tailored Black Coat and Burgundy Sweater with Caramel Tote for Sophisticated Urban Autumn Style
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